Maybe
by greyzonebooks
Summary: Ellen watches a troubled young man stumble into a diner, haunted by ghosts from a war that she's only seen as paper dolls on a television screen. Can she learn to heal him before it's too late?
1. Paper Dolls

The way his hand trembled when he passed me his card spoke enough of the shame it meant to still be alive. It was how his eyes averted from mine, his shoulders hunched, his feet shuffling forward so their sound wouldn't be so loud on the checkered tiles. "Veterans get a free meal today, don't they?"

"Yes, they do, Sir." I slid a menu toward him, his hand jumping when my pinkie brushed his. There was something so empty and sad about a beautiful man stuffing himself into the shell of a timid boy. His shoulders were strong beneath the frayed flannel shirt, unironed by the hands of a mother or wife. "You can choose any value meal that we have."

He slumped his weight onto one of the barstools, head bent so far over the laminated paper that I could see the crown of his head. "I'm Ellen," I offered to fill the vacant air between us. "You just tell me when you know what you want."

"Ellen?" My name never sounded that heavy rolling off of a tongue. "Ellen. When is your next break, Ellen?"

I couldn't hide my smile at that. Anyone who worked the graveyard shift in a diner knew of the lonesome men that wanted companionship from any warm body with breasts. "I'm working through the night today. You have to get through college somehow, right?"

"You're at the university?" He looked up at me for the first time, and my rigorous scrubbing slowed against a stained coffee mug. I didn't know this man at all - he was the same as any other wayward soul who found their way in for the Veteran's Day offer. We never broke even, but it was the least we could do for those men trickling home, haunted by ghosts cut into paper dolls for our living room televisions.

He cleared his throat at my state, and I finally offered, "Yes. I'm an elementary education major, I hope to teach children someday."

"Kids?" He ran his fingers over the salt shaker near the table before quickly sanitizing them with a wipe from his pocket. "You must be awfully patient if you're wanting to work with kids."

I watched my hands turn red under the scalding water. It was easier than trying to meet his eyes. "They can't be much worse than a fry cook, can they?"

My manager Ed passed behind us, wiping at a grease spot on his apron. He didn't mention our small talk - he always put me out front because I was pretty and the men liked to talk to me. They ordered stay-a-while coffee mugs and left good tips, which kept me working there instead of the restaurant down the street. In those days it was hard to find women without box-dyed hair and cigarette-stained fingertips. As long as I wore lipstick and left my blouse unbuttoned at the top, it was enough. Anything for a few dollars. It was the American Dream, after all, applying what I was born with to make a living as meager as it was.

"You probably shouldn't waste your time chatting with me," he murmured, rubbing a hand over the rough stubble on his jaw. "I'll take four eggs over-easy, hash browns, sourdough toast. Coffee black."

"Coming right up," I promised him, jotting the order down with a cheap ballpoint pen. "Where you over in Vietnam?" He was too young, he had to be.

The expression he gave me in return was all I needed to stay clear of the topic. "Yes," he finally offered, an edge in his voice that wasn't quite there before. "I'm a Marine. I worked for the Embassy."

"That must've been interesting." It was a safe chose of words. Even the most gruesome points of history were interesting.

He actually chuckled at that, and coughed before responding. "That sums it up. You're better off right here, I'll tell you that right now."

"Thank you for your service," I offered as I filled a mug with the strong black coffee. "I appreciate your efforts for making this a safe place to live."

"Safe, my ass," he muttered into the mouth of the mug before he nursed at it for a while. "You got a boyfriend, Ellen? Some war hero you're waiting on?"

Even if I did have a boyfriend, we knew better than to say so. Those tips were meals lost, fewer days with a roof above your head. "No, Sir. I'm trying to focus on my studies?"

"What's the fun of wartime if you don't have a boy to root for?" His words had a cynical edge to them, something rotting deep within his spirit.

"I never thought that wartime was fun, Sir," was my careful response. "Did you ever go to college?" I was desperate to keep him happy, to keep him distracted from the trauma that earned him a free plate of eggs that morning.

He shook his head no, folding the menu up with a clap. "That was part of the reason for joining the Marines, darling. It's funny how little schooling matters when you come back from that horseshit, right?"

"You watch your mouth, young man," a grizzled customer muttered from down the line, bent over his own platter of eggs. "You're in the presence of a lady."

He just shook his head, sneering as he pointed out my cleavage with his fork. "You're better than this, lady. You don't need to do that. For what, a couple crumpled dollar bills? You don't have to do that, somebody'll come take care of you before you can bat your eyelashes at me one more time."

"You don't know me, Sir." I moved to refill the other man's cup, the pattering of my white tennis shoes the only sound in the nearly-empty room for a few moments. "That's quite presumptuous of you."

"Just give me my eggs and you'll have my tip," he spit through clenched teeth, fist wrapping around the fork to hide how his fingers shook. "I'll even pay you for the meal, I don't need your charity."

So that's what it was about? "It's not charity, it's a thank you for all that you've done for us over the last few years. It only comes around once, don't waste your chance. Your food's on us for today."

"Ah. Everything makes sense now." The twitch in his jaw said otherwise. "What do you do for fun, Ellen?"

I didn't know what sort of answer he wanted from me, so I tread lightly. "I spend quite a bit of my time studying and working, but I enjoy going out with my girlfriends, dancing or watching a baseball game, if one of their guys are playing. It's not so hard to find cheap fun."

"No one ever spends money on you, Ellen?" His piercing eyes hit mine again, and didn't leave them when I slid his plate in front of him. "Let me take you out. I promise I'll spend the whole night devoted to you."


	2. Mystery Marine

"Who is this man?" The question jarred me so much that my hand faltered, the tube of lipstick hovering over my open mouth. "Seriously, Ellen, who is it? Do I know him? Is he terrible, is that why you're being so secretive about him?"

It was in that moment that I realized I didn't even know the Marine's name. He was a stranger to me, and yet here I was with my hair wrapped in rollers, my lips red, a pretty blue dress sheathing my body. All for him. "He…I met him at the diner," I finally offered, my words stiff and slow. "He came in for Veteran's Day. He's a nice man, he just came home from Vietnam."

"Mmm." My roommate, Catherine, finally looked up from her textbook. Apparently the Marine's identity wasn't so jarring to both of us. "Is he cute?"

That, I could answer. "Yes," I retorted, the corners of my lips twinging up in a smile. "He's very handsome, you should see him when he comes to pick me up. He has these startling eyes." After a moment of silence, I added, "But he's…troubled. Obviously, he just came home from Vietnam."

"A troubled guy?" Catherine cocked one eyebrow at that, rolling onto her stomach while she absently tapped her pen against the textbook. "You better be careful. You're a girl, not a bandage. You don't have to fix anyone. You know that, right?"

"Of course!" I retorted a little too quickly. I knew that I couldn't fix the Marine. Could anyone fix a man who came back from such such horrors? "But he's nice, and he wanted to take me out to dinner. Why should I say no to that? He isn't like the boys here, who are so…immature and inexperienced."

She actually snorted. "He's probably as old as all of the 'boys' here. It's funny what killing someone will do to your mental age."

"He hasn't killed anyone!" I defended despite my ignorance. For all I knew, he could be a mass murderer. But those warm, calloused hands that brushed mine over the menu couldn't be the hands of a killer. They just couldn't be, I couldn't see it in him. "I know he hasn't."

"Ellen." She glared at me with an utter lack of patience for my naivety. "Ellen. He's a Marine. If you think he hasn't killed anyone…"

The idea was completely foreign to me. Of course, he was troubled, but would the hand that would eventually open my my car door, take off my coat, and press against the small of my back have the ability to take a human life?

Catherine just stared at me as the rage of emotions flashed over my eyes. "Just enjoy tonight. Ask him about his death count later, when he's already in love with you and can just cry into your lap rather than feel targeted."

"You're awful," I whispered, backing up to her so she could zip up my dress. It was a pretty light blue that complimented my eyes, the skirt loose enough and the bodice fitted enough to serve me well without being too foreword. "They shouldn't be held accountable for what they do, it's a terrible business. I'm certainly not brave enough for it, and someone has to do it. Why would I criticize him?"

Catherine sighed a little, and zipped the dress up before responding. "They should be held responsible for their actions, murder is murder even if they're Vietnamese, Ellen. It's so easy for us not to care and side with our soldiers when we don't have to see their families with a few empty chairs at their tables."

I turned around to glare at her, but she just repinned a renegade piece of hair for me. "I'm not going to feel badly about going out to dinner with a man who happened to be a Marine."

"You don't have to," she replied, but she had a funny, conflicted look on her face. "Have fun. You should probably go downstairs."

With one final look, I left her there to wait for the mystery Marine.

Catherine was right - he was standing in the lobby of my dorm, foot jittering against the stool where he perched. My heart wrenched when I saw how handsome he was in a tie and gray slacks, his hair neatly slicked back and his jaw cleanly shaven compared to the unkempt mess he was at the diner.

"Hello," I greeted him, my voice sounding thick and foreign in the space between us. "Sorry for being late."

He leapt to his feet once he saw me there, and a smile spread over his lips that lacked his usual cynicism. "Oh, I just got here." After offering me his arm, he added, "You look lovely. Much…cleaner than the other students studying."

"Ah. You really haven't been to college then." Most of the students looked as if they hadn't showered in eons. "I'm glad that you're here, and that we could spend some time together. I do have a silly question - I'm sorry, but what is your name?"

He actually chuckled at that, his laugh seeming much younger and light-hearted than his speaking voice. "Oh, that's my fault. Terrible manners, forgive me, I haven't been around many ladies in a long while." His smile suddenly grew tight. "My name is Christopher Scott. Most everybody calls me Chris, though."

"Christopher Scott," I repeated, drawing closer to him as we met the biting cold awaiting us outside. "That's a lovely name. I'm Ellen, Ellen Anderson."

"Glad we got that out of the way," he murmured, opening my car door for me when we arrived. It was old, the door a little dented, but I could tell that he cared for it well. "I'm just taking you to a steakhouse in the next town over. I didn't want you having to see people you know, and I doubt you wanted to be out late."

After sinking into the car seat and rearranging my skirt around my legs, I said, "I could have worse company than a handsome Marine for dinner." The words surprised even me when they came out of my mouth, that forward. It certainly was the truth.

He cracked a crooked smile, pulling out of campus as we spoke. "Handsome Marine, huh? I suppose you could do worse. When's the last time someone took you out, Ellen? You don't have a boy that'll be after my head for buying you dinner?"

I shook my head no, the soft waves of my curls brushing my cheek. I had slept in rag rollers all night for this. "No, no one like that. I went steady with someone in law school for a while, but we just…didn't get along."

"He wasn't good to you?" He questioned, glancing over at me again with concern in his eyes.

"No, no, it wasn't like that," I quickly remedied. "I just…couldn't be what he wanted. He came from old money, and loved to spend his evenings at lavish parties, small talking, bragging in passive aggressive ways. He also wanted to practice in a big city, and I'm just not that kind of girl."

He nodded stiffly, something twitching in his jaw as I spoke. "I see. What do you want, Ellen?"

It seemed to be a strange point of conversation for the car ride before a date, but I complied anyway. "I want to be a wife, and a mother, and I want to teach at an elementary school. I hated the idea of spending my life at the gym trying to fit into cocktail dresses, and playing the game of a socialite woman. I don't think life has to be that hard.

"It doesn't, you're right," he replied after another stiff nod. "Well, I would like to get to know you better, Ellen Anderson. Hopefully I don't manage to scare you off."

 **I hope you enjoyed this brief chapter, I promise I'll actually give them a date next. For this year's NaNoWriMo, I'm just trying to write 50,000 words rather than a novel in general. Tell me if you have any requests for the direction of this Miss Saigon story.**


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